Bitters End
by Botticelli Devil
Summary: Curt thinks about Brian's eyes.


"Bitters End"  
By Niko Wilde  
Botticellidevil@pretention.net  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Although what you're about to read is a work of fiction, it should nevertheless be viewed at maximum volume. The characters belong to Todd Haynes, and they aren't mine….even if they do like to inhabit my dreams sometimes.  
  
Amateur work of fiction, no money involved.  
  
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"You were the raven of October  
I knew the sign you flew around  
Up in the air so high above me  
Never needed to look down"  
Bryan Ferry  
  
  
"I remember he had cold eyes, the kind that…"  
  
He stopped himself then; long enough to push the platinum tangles out of his eyes and light another cigarette. It was a nervous habit that had gotten worse and worse since the absence of heroin. When he didn't know what to say next, when the words dried up and stuck to the back of his throat like arid dust, Curt Wild always lit another cigarette.  
  
There was a strange comfort to be found in such predictability. Even if the whole world fell down around him, there was still the security of sucking in smoke until his lungs burned. He could envision them shriveling up, sometimes, with every breath. Caving in on themselves until his chest ached, and he had to gasp for air. Thinking about Brian made him claustrophobic in his own skin…but he did it anyway.   
  
He needed to, even though it felt like picking at an open wound. Find the spot that hurts the most, and poke it until it bleeds.  
  
The pain made him more, somehow. More than the walking, breathing shadow that he had become.  
  
The cigarette slid between his lips, and the taste was all wrong. Too sweet, that's what it was- not the mellow, bitter tobacco he was used to. The taste clung to his lips like an over eager kiss, and he leaned forward until the heat of the waiting flame spread over his chin and tickled his nose.  
  
They were Jack's brand, something exotic and outrageously expensive. Jack was teaching him to breathe again.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, leaned back into some semblance of his former self while drawing the sickly sweet smoke into his lungs. One hand reached for the cup in front of him, and he swirled the dark liquid- the bitter brew that passed as coffee in this corner of Berlin, before placing it back on the table. He realized he had been waiting for Jack to finish his sentence for him, because Jack knew. Jack understood. Jack had lived through hurricane Brian, and Curt understood suddenly that he wanted to know how.  
  
But Jack only smiled that slightly enigmatic smile, and urged him to go on.  
  
The cigarette would be a lifeline while Curt sorted through his thoughts. Something tangible in his mouth, in his fingers, as the gauzy ghosts capered on the peripheral edge of memory.   
  
Go on, as if it's the simplest thing in the world to explain how your hands shake for no reason, and you feel as though you've become translucent. How one day, you're alive in the heart of the world…and the next; you've become a ghost. A walking, talking, barely breathing ghost who can't remember who he used to be.  
  
"…the kind that remind you of a frozen winter pond. Beautiful and dangerous."  
  
Not dangerous in the typical sense of the word. Not dangerous in the way that everyone believed Curt himself was dangerous….it was different, somehow- but twice as deadly. He had wanted to see himself reflected in those eyes so badly that his skin tingled with the desire. His ears rang with it, his words slurred and spilled out in a barely comprehensible tumble every time he found himself close to Brian. Every day, he found himself skating further and further out onto the ice, ignoring the warning signs that he slid past with ever increasing speed and abandon. Thin ice ahead. The need for self-preservation gripped the base of his spine like a steel vice, but he didn't care.  
  
All that mattered was that they were wild together. They may have been a figment of the world's collective imaginations, but together they were…real.  
  
But the ice cracked, and he found himself drowning with no real hope of rescue. The color went out of his vision, food lost its taste, and everything sounded tinny and unreal. He wondered sometimes if Brian had felt the same way. He wondered sometimes if Brian felt anything at all.  
  
Remembering this way sometimes felt like taking a scalpel and cutting through his skin until the memories bloomed like bloody roses…vaguely disturbing, painful as hell, but still…underneath it all…beautiful.  
  
And exclusively his. The only thing that couldn't be touched, or tainted, or tampered with. If he could hold on to them long enough, then maybe…just maybe…he wouldn't be a ghost any more.  
  
"But you knew that already, didn't you, mate?"  
  
Curt swallowed the last of the sweet smoke, and held it in his lungs until he felt the familiar burn. Held it until it was painful, and the back of his throat tickled with the urge to cough it out. For a moment, at least- he was alive again.  
  
"For once there was an unknown land, full of strange flowers and subtle perfumes, a land of which it is joy of all joys to dream, a land where all things are perfect and poisonous."  
  
May 2, 2000  



End file.
